


chained to you

by Anonymous



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Handcuffed Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 22:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5182589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/





	chained to you

"Well," Miro says mildly.

Thomas represses the urge to say _it's not what it looks like,_ because, well, it's exactly what it looks like, and they can both see that perfectly well, and it's not like Miro wasn't there the whole time, he could hardly have missed it -- it just seems like the kind of thing that ought to be said in this kind of situation. For now he settles on insisting "I _did_ have the key," because he had had it, fifteen minutes ago, just before he'd decided it was a good idea to handcuff himself to Miro as a joke about the whole retirement thing.

Anyway, the key had been safely in his pocket then, and even though he's just checked and not found anything he tries again, wrapping his arm around himself awkwardly to turn it all the way inside out this time. He ends up pressed against Miro's side, half-tangled in their cuffed arms, and it's only because Miro had braced himself that they keep from falling over, but he gets his pockets turned out -- both of them, just to be sure -- and finds nothing except a little lint and a receipt for the handcuffs.

Miro sighs with what's obviously supposed to be exasperation, though this close Thomas can't not notice the way his lips quirk up at the corners, an almost-smile that erases the worried crows' feet around his eyes.

"No," Thomas says, keeping a straight face despite the strong temptation to grin, "no, I definitely had it-- maybe you should check. I can't reach."

"I should check your pockets," Miro says.

"That's right," Thomas agrees.

"You should keep a better eye on things." But he gives in, like Thomas had known he would, and deftly untangles them just enough to be able to reach into Thomas's back pocket, pulling them into something like a hug as his long fingers slide down across Thomas's ass in what's really a very agreeable kind of way.

"Next time you have to buy me dinner first," Thomas says just as Miro gives up on one pocket and has his hand half-into the second. Miro pauses, fingers going still, and turns his head slightly. The only bad thing about being pressed so close to him, he thinks, is being unable to see his face, even though he's sure he knows the puzzled, wary look. "I know you, Miro -- you stole that key on purpose so you could get a good feel." 

Miro splutters indignantly and incoherently, caught by surprise as planned, and Thomas grins against the side of his neck in victory, shoving his ass back against Miro's hand to further his point. 

"What's there to feel?" Miro rallies, grabbing exactly what there is, getting a good big handful with a sharp squeeze that makes Thomas jump a little in his arms. "No, there's nothing here."

Thomas digs his elbow awkwardly into Miro's side and checks him with his hip at the same time, knocking him a bit off-balance so that he can get himself turned around again, keeping his maligned ass in close contact. "If there's nothing, then what's this?"

"I don't feel anything--" Miro says, but he's smiling openly now when Thomas glances over his shoulder. He breaks into a surprised laugh as Thomas rubs against him, wiggling his hips in a parody of a lapdance that's only half a joke. "No -- Thomas--"

But with the handcuffs, Miro can't escape; he couldn't have planned it any better if he'd tried, he thinks, just before an extra-enthusiastic thrust knocks Miro off-balance, sending them both stumbling backwards, tripping over each other's legs, to land with a breath-stealing thump on the large leather sofa at the edge of the room, with Thomas in Miro's lap for real, now. 

"Now look what you did," he says, smirking at the amused resignation in Miro's eyes, the slight flush beginning to rise on his cheeks. "How am I supposed to believe you weren’t planning this whole thing after this? But there's still time to give it back and we’ll forget all about it."

"How could anyone not want to be handcuffed to you," Miro says, moving forward slightly on the couch to get a more comfortable angle for his hips, but not really trying to dislodge Thomas. He's still smiling, that tiny little uptilt at the corner of his mouth that's always all the more seductive because Miro never _means_ it to be.

"Exactly what I was thinking." Miro's lap is already comfortable enough for him, but he shifts around as if it weren't, plastering a bad parody of an innocent expression on his face. "You know, I have this problem all the time."

"Handcuffing yourself to other--" 

That line of conversation isn't going to lead anywhere productive, Thomas can already tell -- somewhere amusing, very possibly, but not productive -- so tempting as it is to let him continue, he leans in a bit, pushing Miro firmly into the back of the couch, and kisses him instead. The curve of Miro's lips under his own twitches upwards sharply as Miro represses another laugh, then gentles, opening for him. Miro's free hand comes up around his back, stroking slowly upwards to his shoulders and holding him there; he leans forward into Thomas's weight, deepening the kiss with his usual serious intensity.

It's good, good enough that Thomas forgets the handcuffs until he tries to reach up and ends up awkwardly yanking at Miro's free hand with a jangle of metal that sets both of them laughing again, Miro slipping down to muffle his renewed smile against Thomas's neck, the shiver of his hot breaths sending a lightning-sharp chill down Thomas's spine. "You make things so difficult, old man," Thomas says.

There's too much truth in that, he realizes it as soon as the words are out of his mouth, and covers for himself immediately by going on the attack: his hand (the one that's not cuffed) slipping between them, under his thigh to cup Miro's half-hard cock through his jeans, stroking it with his thumb, feeling Miro's breathing stutter at the touch, his fingers tightening on his shoulder, his lips pressing against Thomas's throat in a too-gentle kiss -- Miro never leaves bruises, never leaves marks, not even where they'd be covered, the iron strength of his control both attractive and infuriating. But he's getting harder under Thomas's hand now, his hips rocking up into the pressure as Thomas squeezes again with a gasp that turns into a quiet moan.

He's trying to unbutton Miro's jeans one-handed, which is harder than he had thought it was going to be, when Miro lets go of him, then pushes him back a little. "Thomas," he says, then, when with that extra space between them Thomas manages to pop the button and get the zip down, "God, Thomas, stop."

He stops, hand half-into Miro's jeans, and looks down at him: he's still hard, eyes still full of that quiet heated interest. "What," he starts, “not again--” and then Miro is kissing him again at the same time he's pulling Thomas's hand back out of his jeans. 

"Not yet," Miro says between kisses, biting at Thomas's lower lip not-quite-hard-enough.

"God," Thomas echoes, and then "Fuck--" as Miro pulls them both over sideways on the couch and twists so that he's on top, his cock hard against Thomas's hip. Miro grabs his free hand and pins it up by his shoulder, trapping the cuffed one there, too, and smiles: just faintly, but it's electrifying, it has Thomas bucking his hips upwards against Miro's body, shoving his cock hard against his hip, suddenly desperate for friction. "Miro." He tries to keep it from sounding like the plea it is.

Miro's not fooled, he can see that -- he never is -- but he doesn't say anything, just leans down on his elbows and kisses Thomas again, painfully gently, on the mouth, the corner of his lips; tilts his head, kisses his throat again. "Like this," he says against Thomas's ear.

"Huh?"

"This is what I would have planned," he says, his fingers tightening at Thomas's wrist, as if to form another cuff, and Thomas suddenly gets it and is opening his mouth to say something about it when Miro lifts his head and kisses him again, hard, deep, clearly designed to shut him up.

He can't resent it, not really, not with the hard grip of Miro’s fingers around his wrist, not with Miro's weight pressing him down into the couch seats. He pushes upwards again, spreading his legs a little so that Miro settles between his thighs, and when Miro finally lets his mouth free he's too busy gasping for air to talk, as much as he’d like to complain about the unfairness of it all, or--

Miro thrusts down against him, deliberate, firm, a teasing echo of the way he fucks Thomas with slow deep strokes when he's about to come, keeping him on the edge until he begs. Thomas feels like he's already halfway to begging for it, and he hasn't even got his shorts off yet. The next kiss is light, barely more than a touch, but when Thomas tries to lean up for more, Miro holds him down, rocking their hips together again until Thomas groans into the kiss, into Miro's mouth.

"Good," Miro says, lips brushing against Thomas's, and kneels up over him, letting go of his wrist -- Thomas leaves his hand where it is, as if Miro was still pinning him -- and reaching between them to pull Thomas's shorts and briefs down around his thighs, the back of his hand so close to Thomas's cock as Thomas lifts his hips to help him get them down that he can feel the heat of his skin. Miro pulls himself out of his jeans and strokes himself slowly, one long slow pass of his fist from base to tip and back that Thomas can't look away from.

For a minute Thomas thinks Miro's just going to do that, going to jerk off over him, come on his stomach where his shirt's rucked up by their messing around, over his thighs; he swallows hard, cock twitching untouched against his belly at the thought; at the idea of jerking off afterwards underneath him, using Miro's come for lube while Miro stays there watching him. "Don't make me wait," he says, licking his lips, "Come on, Miro, you tease me all the time, you don't need to cuff me for that."

But Miro stops after that one touch, bringing his hand back up to Thomas's. "Do I really tease you?" he asks, voice perfectly serious.

"You're teasing me right now," Thomas says, laughing again despite the heat growing in his stomach, despite the pleasant ache of his wrist where the handcuff keeps digging in and the way that feels good in ways he'd never expected it to.

"I don't think so," Miro says, and kisses him again, a gentle peck, infuriatingly chaste. "Sit up."

Thomas sits, guided by Miro's hand on his shoulder until he's upright on the couch, back against the cushions, Miro straddling his legs and their cuffed hands at their sides. "Well," he says, "this is familiar."

"Try not to get too bored," Miro says, backing off of the couch so that he's kneeling on the floor in front of him. Thomas only has time for a quick breath before Miro's leaning forwards across his lap, cuffed hand curling around Thomas's cock and holding it steady; Miro flicks one glance up at him, as if making sure he has Thomas's attention -- of course he does, how could he not -- and then his mouth is on him, tongue curving beneath the head of his cock, lips tight as he slides down.

"Fuck," Thomas says, touching the back of his cuffed hand's fingers to Miro's face, feeling the sharp hollow of his cheeks, the way Miro's lips stretch wide around his dick, sliding down until they meet his fist. For the most part he manages to hold still, but he can't help lifting his free hand, rubbing Miro's broad shoulder, feeling the flexion and knowing Miro's jacking himself off after all while he sucks him; cupping the nape of his neck as Miro pulls back until he's got just the head between his lips, teasing relentlessly with his tongue until Thomas's hand shakes with the effort of not pulling his head back down for more. “Come on, suck me,” he says, “you haven’t been away so long you’ve forgotten the right way to eat sausage -- if you have, I can show you again--” more than half breathless, the words tumbling over each other uncontrollably.

But Miro just quirks one eyebrow and strokes him instead, steady and tight with a twist on each upstroke, the handcuff chain jingling faintly, and mouths at the crown, letting Thomas's cock slip nearly out of his mouth entirely before taking it back in. He waits until Thomas is panting for breath, his thighs trembling and inching wider and wider apart, a silent, sadistic lecture about the relative importance of patience over proper zuzeling technique, and then suddenly, without warning, lets his mouth follow his fist back down the shaft.

Thomas can't help it, he jerks forward, thrusting up into Miro's mouth and against the back of his throat, gasping a garbled apology -- and Miro just takes it, looking back up at him for the first time since he started, swallowing around him. Thomas's hand tightens on his neck, slides up into the back of his hair, the gel prickling at his fingertips. "I’m," he manages between his teeth. "Miro--"

Miro's tongue curls around him, he hums softly, an almost encouraging sound, and Thomas can't even finish his sentence before he's coming so hard he can't talk, can barely think, his cock jerking in Miro's mouth, filling it -- Miro swallows once, again, his tongue playing gently now over the head. When he sits back on his heels there's only a faint streak of white across his lower lip; Thomas nearly knocks him over lunging down off the couch to kiss it off of him and discovers that he's still hard, hasn't brought himself off yet.

He licks his lips, tastes himself, kisses Miro again. "Now you," he mumbles against his mouth, reaching down and pulling Miro's hand back to his dick, guiding him into a quick rhythm.

"I shouldn't," Miro says, leaning back just enough to be heard, "Not like this."

"I've got other shirts, you know," Thomas says. “You can go ahead and sign this one.” He swipes his thumb across the head of Miro's cock, just a little rough, the way he sometimes likes it, and Miro shudders, half-laughing, and comes across the bottom of Thomas's shirt, over their joined hands, leaning forward just a little to rest his forehead against Thomas's shoulder as the last of it shivers through him.

They stay like that a moment, kneeling on the floor; Miro catching his breath, Thomas appreciating the sated, almost dazed feel that radiates from him with smirking satisfaction. When Miro sits back at last and goes to refasten his jeans, he tugs at Thomas's wrist, having apparently forgotten the handcuffs entirely, and looks up. "Did you actually lose the keys, Thomas?"

The smirk fades. "Well..."


End file.
